


The Light in Your Eyes

by Phantastic_Whovian



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: And greg just doesn't deserve this BS, Anorexia, Broken Sherlock, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Johnlock for like five seconds, M/M, Multi, Mycroft needs a hug too, Mystrade eventually, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Suicide Attempt, Supportive Mycroft, even Sherlock ships it, referenced suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:18:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantastic_Whovian/pseuds/Phantastic_Whovian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock recieves word of a case, but he thinks it's not all it seems to be. The dangerous Sebastian Moran is out there, and his target is John<br/>I don't want to spoil too much but basically I'm doing everything I can to completely break Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Faded Star

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of bad stuff happens in this chapter and it ends horribly! You're all gonna hate me :D

No.  
This couldn't be happening.  
The man smirked at Sherlock. "One more step, and I shoot you." Sherlock tried to care, he really did. But John was standing there defenseless, a terrified look in his eyes. His eyes flicked to Sherlocks, and he could read the silent plea in them. 'Help.' The sound of the man cocking the gun echoed through the alley. But instead of pointing at Sherlock, the man turned to point it directly at Johns chest. "No!" Sherlock cried without meaning to. The man smirked. "As if I wouldn't notice that. Veery interesting." He said, as though it were nothing more than a game. "Please." Sherlock said, holding his hands above his head in the universal gesture for 'I'm beaten' The man rolled his eyes. "A little melodramatic, aren't you?"  
The sound of the gun firing almost startled him. John seemed to fall in slow motion, a red stain blossoming across his chest. The man smirked. "Oops. Did I hurt poor Johnny boy?" Sherlock exploded. With a speed nobody knew he possessed, himself included, he leapt for the man. When Scotland Yard arrived five minutes later, the man was bloody, bruised, and unconscious, and Sherlock was cradling John, pressing his scarf against the bullet wound. "Stay with me, John. Come on. Stay with me." The medics rushed for John, but Sherlock refused to let go of his hand and nobody had the heart to do it. So he was loaded into the ambulance with Sherlock still clutching his hand tightly. In his other hand dangled his favorite blue scarf, given to him by Mycroft for his fifteenth birthday, now stained with his best friends blood. 

When Greg walked into the hospital room, he didn't expect what he saw. All he had been told was that John had been shot, and Sherlock was in the hospital room. That in no way prepared him for the sight that greeted his eyes. John was lying in the hospital bed, motionless. The only sound was the beeping of the heart monitor. "Uh, Sherlock?" The detectives head turned slowly, and Greg had to work very hard not to gasp. Sherlocks eyes were puffy and red, almost if he had been crying. The normally iridescent blue was now ice cold and lifeless. "I-I'm sorry-I didn't realize-I didn't think-" Sherlock glared at him. "Oh don't act so innocent, it's incredibly tiresome. This is all your fault." "My-my fault?" "You're the one who gave me this case in the first place, the one who placed us in that alleyway like bait!" "Hang on-I didn't-you went to that alley of your own free will!" "You didn't exactly try to stop me. Just get out, Greg." "I-" "Out!" So he backed out the door, thinking that Sherlock must be incredibly upset to call him by his actual name. He didn't know what, but something made him pause just outside the doorway. After a moment, he heard a soft sound emanating from the room. He had to listen for a second to make sure he was hearing right, but there was no mistaking it. The sound was Sherlock's quiet sobs.  
Walking down the hallway, he pulled out his phone to dial the one number he never thought he would. He didn't exactly meant to memorize it, but somehow the digits are seared into his brain. The phone rang once, twice, then he picked up. "Gregory?" "Hello, Mycroft." "What's happened? You wouldn't be calling me if something wasn't wrong." "Yeah, well...I'm at the hospital with Sherlock." "What's happened to him?" Underneath his usual composed voice, Greg detected a note of panic. "Not him. John." There was a sharp intake of breath and the phone disconnected. 

Six minutes. Six minutes flat for Mycroft to reach the hospital. He strode in through the double doors, not even pausing to talk to Greg. "I'm not gonna even ask how you got here so quickly." "Wise idea." He quickened his steps to a half jog, trying to keep up with Mycroft. "How did you know which hospital?" "I have contacts. How is he?" Mycroft asked, almost as if he were worried what the answer might be. "Um...I've never seen him like this. He hasn't left John's side. He yelled at me-which isn't that unusual-and kicked me out of the room. He was even crying, I think." "Impossible." Mycroft snorted. "My brother doesn't cry. Not since...a long time ago." He shrugged. "Just telling you what I heard." Mycroft froze. "You actually heard him crying." "Yeah, and his eyes were all puffy and bloodshot. " Mycrofts face went pale. "Thank you for telling me, Gregory." His stride almost doubled, making his way to John's door. Greg couldn't help but notice the lack of his usual umbrella, and a strange bulge almost like workout clothes under his slightly askew suit. It made him wonder how soon after his call Mycroft had left.  
And people said Mycroft Holmes didn't have a heart.

Mycrofts footfalls were nearly silent entering the room, but Sherlock's head moved the slightest bit. "Hello, brother mine." "Why are you here?" He asked, not turning his face. His voice dripped with venom. "I simply wanted-" "To see me beaten?" He finally turned his head to look at Mycroft. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot with tear tracks running down his cheeks. But what unnerved Mycroft the most was his eyes. They were cold, lifeless, dull. His voice was full of anger. But his eyes were defeated. "To see me weak? Broken? I won't give you the satisfaction." He turned back to John. "Goodbye, 'brother dear'." Mycroft walked out, but paused at the door. "Sherlock..." "Goodbye." 

"You're telling me he hasn't left Johns bedside in five days?" "No. He sleeps there-as much as he ever sleeps, anyways-and he eats there-well, there were a few fast food wrappers. Not enough for a normal person, but..." Molly sighed. "I haven't been over yet. I just...I just couldn't. I couldn't see him like that, you know? Either of them." Greg nodded. "Yeah. I know what you mean." "I guess I could swing by after work. Maybe...I could talk to him." She said, not even believing it herself. "Worth a try." Greg said bracingly, though they both knew it wouldn't make a difference. The only person who could get through to Sherlock right now was the man lying in that hospital bed. The flowers in Molly's hand suddenly seemed too bright, too lurid. They were yellow. Who brought yellow flowers into a hospital? Her hands were shaking. Her heart had somehow leapt into her throat. She touched the doorknob lightly, as if afraid it would shock her, and slowly turned it. The first thing she noticed was the chair. It was oddly out of place, like someone had hastily dragged it over. Then she noticed Sherlock. His hand was intertwined with Johns in a death grip, as if daring anyone to take him away. He was painfully thin, and his puffy eyes had deep bags. He was slumped forward on the chair, his head resting on Johns chest, his soft curls brushing John's cheek. He looked painfully childlike. Sad. When you took away his boldness, his magnificence, his intelligence-he really was very vulnerable and frail. She quietly set them on the bedside table, and left. She knew she couldn't come back. Seeing John, pale and still in that bed was hard enough, but even now that she was finally over her mortifying crush on him...to realize Sherlock Holmes really was only human was more than she could bear. 

Sherlock didn't wake up until he felt a stirring beneath his head. He sat bolt upright, hardly daring to hope. He searched Johns face for a sign of life. After a moment, Johns eyes flickered open. "Sh-Sherlock?" He managed hoarsely. Sherlock made a half human cry somewhere between a sob and a cry of relief. "Yes. Yes, it's me. Did you really think a bullet would stop me?" John laughed weakly, but it turned into a cough, and he winced. Sherlock frowned. He hadn't meant to cause John pain. He moved his hand slightly, and Sherlock remembered their intertwined fingers.  
"Oh, sorry." He said, removing his hand.  
"No, I..." John held out his hand, and with a small smile Sherlock took it again.  
"Has Mary come by?" He asked. Things had been rocky between then since the divorce. Sherlock doubted that Mary even knew, or that she would even care.  
"No." But I'm here. I've been here the whole time, Sherlock thought."Have you left?" John asked, as if reading his mind. "No." "God, Sherlock...have you even slept? You look like hell." "Well, look who's talking." Sherlock said, fully aware he was dodging the question. "Sherlock, I have to tell you something." "No. It...it can wait until you've rested and we're back in 221B. Back home." He said, relishing the fact he could call that Johns home once more. "Sherlock...we both know I'm not...I won't..." Sherlock felt his eyes well up unexpectedly, and he closed them for a moment. "Don't talk like that." He said sharply. "Look, I know you might not be ready to hear this, and this isn't how I wanted to say it, but..." "No." Sherlock said. "Stop. No. John-" "I love you."  
Three words. Just three words, but they ripped apart Sherlock's world, shattered it, changed everything he knew. He let out a sob of anguish and crumpled against John's chest. John's warm arms reached up to encircle him. "It's okay." He said. "I'm not even scared." Sherlock lifted his head slightly. John wore a half smile, but there was a wrinkle of concern on his forehead. He reached out to gently smooth it, then his hand swept down to John's chin. "I...I love you too, John." He slowly, slowly leaned forward and finally kissed him. It was a moment of pure bliss. But even the happiest moments can be shattered, and this one was shattered by the sound of a flatlining heart machine. "John? John? Help! I need some help in here! Stay with me, John! John? John!!"


	2. How a Person Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I broke Sherlock...and myself in the process *sobs*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning-there are several mentions of past suicide attempts and self harm in this chapter. There is also a homophobic slur (used in description not as an insult in the moment. You'll see)  
> Um enjoy, I guess? *starts sobbing again*

Sherlock stood alone at the gravestone. The funeral had ended hours ago. But he couldn't bring himself to leave.  
Some had offered comfort-Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. Even Mycroft in his own way (a text reading only 'Redbeard')But others, Johns family and friends (most of whom he had never met) weren't so kind. Sometimes it was just a glare. Other times, it was worse. "This is all your fault." "Look what you did to him!" "If he'd never met you this wouldn't have happened." He couldn't argue with that. Johns mother slapped him. He didn't resist. He knew that he deserved it. Now, he stood alone at Johns grave, clutching a bouquet that Mrs Hudson had pressed into his hand. He cleared his throat.  
"I, ah...John. I don't quite know what to say." He said. "You obviously know I find it ridiculous talking to a gravestone as if you were still here beside me. Mrs Hudson gave me these flowers, so I'll just...I'll just um, put them here." He knelt down to place the flowers at Johns grave, and rested his head on the stove for a moment. A rebellious tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, falling into the loose soil below, and more quickly followed.   
"One more miracle, John, for me." Sherlock choked out, remembering the words coming from Johns mouth instead of his own. "Don't be dead." But there was no escaping the finality. His best friend, the only man he had ever loved, and the only one who had ever loved him, was dead.  
And no miracle could change that.

He didn't know how long he sat like that. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. But then he felt a hand on his shoulder. The first thought in his mind was 'John' and he allowed himself to hope, however briefly. But the hand was too small and light. It was Mrs Hudson.  
"I'm going back to Baker Street, dear, if you want to come with me."  
"No, I can't. I just can't face it."  
"What do you mean? I can make you some tea, and we'll have a little chat."  
"No thank you Mrs Hudson. But I'm sure J-" The name stuck in his throat. Remembering was infinitely painful, but forgetting for even a second was worse. He cleared his throat. "I can't live at Baker Street anymore. I'll um...I'll be by to pick up my things."   
"All right, dear. "

Sherlock hesitated outside the door. Then he knocked gingerly. Mrs Hudson answered within seconds.  
"Oh, Sherlock..." She said, reaching out. He stood there stiffly as she hugged him, until she finally let go and opened the door.   
"I-I haven't touched anything. Figured you'd want to sort out the things you liked." The stairs creaked as he walked up them. Somehow, his feet grew heavier with each step.  
The living room was exactly how they'd left it, papers in stacks and sometimes just loose on the floor, the empty takeout dishes discarded on the table. The door was still slightly ajar from when they'd left in a hurry, and johns coat was still haphazardly on the rack where he'd forgotten it. Sherlock picked it up, and buried his face in it. It still smelled like John.   
Johns armchair stood there, a small island in all the mess. Sherlock sat down heavily, memories flooding back.  
' Sherlock strode brusquely into the room.  
"Lestrade's called. There's a case." John looked up from his laptop.  
"Oh, really?"  
"Yes. And it's a more important one than even he knows."  
"How come?" Sherlock hesitated.  
"I can't tell you right now. I might be wrong. It does happen, very occasionally." John rolled his eyes.  
"A bit more than very occasionally." Sherlock grinned.  
"Come on, we've got a crime scene to get to." '

Sherlock stood up abruptly. The worst part was still to come. As if to get it over with, he walked to Johns room more quickly than usual, and turned the door.  
It was the same as usual. His bed was made a bit haphazardly, there was a pair of jeans lying on the floor. But there was something Sherlock had never really noticed before. On his nightstand there was a picture. It was of John and Sherlock. He couldn't remember when it was taken, but they were both smiling and happy. They were sitting on the couch, looking at each other. They probably hadn't even noticed Mrs Hudson till she'd taken the picture. She had most likely taken it-she'd gotten a new camera and become obsessed with taking pictures.

When Mrs Hudson came in to check on Sherlock, he was sitting in the armchair again, sobbing into Johns coat, the photograph clutched tightly in his hand. She knew he would never forgive her for observing or interrupting this moment of vulnerability, so she quietly closed the door.

Johns coat and the photograph were still clutched tightly in Sherlock's hand when he came downstairs.  
"I was thinking, dear." Mrs Hudson said, "Do you want his armchair? It seems sort of silly, but I can't really imagine anyone else sitting in it."  
"No." Sherlock replied, something in his eyes warning her not to press the issue.  
"Maybe I'll just take it then. I couldn't let anyone else sit in it, and if that flat gets sold..." Only five people-four people now-would have recognized the softening in his eyes, and the slight relaxation of his shoulders.  
"Yes, I think that would be best." Mrs Hudson managed a small smile at him, and he turned to leave. She hoped he would be all right. He'd seen enough hardships.

Maybe he would have been all right. Maybe he would have healed.  
Maybe, just maybe.  
But that stupid landlord offered to help him move his stuff in. There wasn't much, just two boxes. His clothes, John's jacket, a few dishes. He could buy furniture later. But while they were moving it, the photograph of John and Sherlock fell out of Sherlocks's pocket. The landlord reached for it before Sherlock could snatch it up.  
"Hang on, you're friends with this bloke?" He asked. "He used to live here, coupla years ago. Always wondered what happened to him. He was a good tenant, usually payed on time. Say, where is he now?" Sherlock grabbed the photo and ran. He bolted out the front door and down the street, through alleys and sharp turns. He ran until his lungs ached and his legs gave out. He collapsed against a brick wall, chest heaving. He couldn't take it anymore. Everything hurt. Everything hurt so much. And when there was pain, it was natural to remove it.

Mycroft found him two hours later. It wouldn't have taken so long, but Sherlock had a very intimate knowledge of London's backstreets and alleyways that Mycroft did not. He vowed to memorize every street and alleway in London when he got home, but for now all he could do was send out people in disguise to discreetly search. Homeless people, taxi drivers. When he got a message that Sherlock had been found, he was there in under ten minutes. Fearing the worst, he raced down the alley. Sherlock was curled up in the fetal position, still clutching that damned photograph. His eyes were blank and empty. His eyes were red, but not from crying. Mycroft knelt beside him.  
"Sherlock?" He said.   
"Go away, Myc'" He mumbled. That was when Mycroft really began to worry. Sherlock hadn't called him 'Myc' since fifth grade.  
"Did you make a list?" Sherlock mumbled something. "What?" Mycroft asked.  
"To hell with the list. To hell with you. To hell with everything! I don't care anymore, Myc." He cried.  
"Did. You make. A list." Sherlock handed it to him. Mycroft read the long, long list, the wrinkle in his brow becoming deeper and deeper.  
"Sherlock! How could you have taken all of this? You could die!" Sherlock shrugged, and Mycroft suddenly was 21 again, and Sherlock was a silent fourteen year old in a hospital bed with suicide scars on his wrists. "Do you...want to die?" Sherlock shrugged again, and suddenly Mycroft was filled with uncharacteristic anger. Anger at the world, at Sherlock, at John, at Sebastian Moran for doing this to his little brother.

'Sherlock sped down the street away from the crime scene.   
"Sherlock, wait!" John gasped. Sherlock slowed, but did not stop. "What the hell was that?"  
"What?"  
"You just walked into the crime scene, looked at everything and then practically ran out. Lestrade's used to your odd behavior, god knows, but this? What's going on?"  
"My suspicions were confirmed."  
"No, hang on-what suspicions?" When Sherlock didn't answer, John planted his feet and stood stock still. "Sherlock, I am not taking another step until you tell me what the hell is going on!" Sherlock sighed.  
"All right, but not here." John grudgingly followed him down the street, through many confusing twists and turns and back roads, into a small alley.'

When Sherlock awoke, he was in a bright, airy hospital room. The smell of antiseptic and death was overpowering, and he leaned forward to vomit over the side of his bed.  
"Ghastly." A familiar voice said. He looked up to see Mycroft standing in the corner. "I'll call a nurse, shall I?"  
"What are you doing here, Mycroft? Come to gloat?"  
"Gloat? Never. Do you really think so little of me?"  
"What do you want?"   
"I'm worried about you, Sherlock. That was a dangerous stunt you pulled. You nearly died."  
"Why should you care?" Mycroft sighed. His eyes were downcast as he replied  
"You are still my brother, Sherlock. I do care about you as much as I do about anything. And...I would never wish to see you like this." Sherlock snorted.  
"Like I'm supposed to believe you. Like I'm supposed to think the ice-man has a heart after all."  
"Despite what you think, Sherlock, I don't hate you. I could never."   
"Then why did you leave?" He practically whispered.  
"I came back, Sherlock."  
"Not really." Mycroft walked to the side of Sherlock's bed. A silent understanding seemed to pass between them. "It wasn't your fault." Mycroft said. "Nobody could have known-"  
"I'm tired." Sherlock interrupted. "If you are quite done with your 'concern' I would like to sleep." Mycroft nodded once, and left the room. He was unsurprised to find Greg waiting in the hallway.  
"Hello, Gregory."  
"Mycroft. Heard what happened, and I got down here as soon as I could. How is he?"  
"Physically, he should be fine."  
"You know that's not what I meant. We never really got a chance to talk last time you were here. I wanted to know-when you came, you were concerned about Sherlock. But you didn't even say a word about John."  
"He is my brother."  
"Right, I know that. But it just seems a little strange." Mycroft sighed.  
"My brother has always been extremely fragile, no matter what he says. Not just physically, but mentally. We used to be very close, long ago. He was always very different. Shy, quiet. He astounded the other children with his intelligence and different ways. I think in a way he scared them. And they scared him. They mostly avoided each other. But, one day in fifth grade, one of the older children decided they'd had enough. Sherlock came home bloody and bruised, demanding to know what the words 'gay' and 'faggot' meant. It was the first time he'd really heard them. Well, it continued. Each day would be worse than the last. I started writing the school, calling, visiting each day, trying to get them to do something. Their answer never changed. 'We're looking into it.' They'd say. Nearly a month after the first incident, Sherlock came home with the word 'Freak' carved into the flesh on his stomach. He had to be taken to the hospital. As far as I know, the scar is still there, surrounded by many others. We sued the school and moved, and it was then I started teaching Sherlock to not care, to be unfeeling. I'd hoped that it would help, and it seemed to. That was the year he got the dog. Redbeard. He loved that dog. It was the closest thing he had to a friend other than me. I went off to university that year, the year he was eleven, and I don't think he's ever truly forgiven me. But he was happy enough, with mummy and daddy and red beard. I think he would have been fine, had redbeard  
not gotten cancer. But he did. Sherlock was fourteen. I was nearly done with university. A few more months and I would have been home for good. But the dog had to be put down. Sherlock was distraught. Refused to eat, to sleep, to talk. My parents wrote me, called me, begged me to come. By the time I got there, it was too late. Sherlock had attempted suicide. Slit his own wrists. He was laying there in his hospital bed, still and silent until I came in. He screamed at me, told me he hated me, that he wished I had never come home, that he never wanted to see me again. They were the first words he'd spoken in weeks. Then he started crying. It was the last time I ever saw him cry, until now. He attempted suicide three more times, got into drugs, and slowly spiraled downwards. I wanted to take back every word I said about not feeling, but it was too late. He was too far gone." Mycrofts voice was on the verge of losing its normal composure, and his eyes were large and desperate. "You have no idea how much I wish I could change what happened, the things I told him, the lessons I drilled into his head. Maybe none of it would have happened. Maybe he'd be better off now. Maybe he would have been able to admit his feelings for Doctor Watson before it was too late." Mycroft reached up to touch his forehead with his fingers. A calming gesture. Greg grabbed his hand and looked him straight in the eyes. Mycroft looked more than a little surprised, but didn't move.  
"Now you listen to me, Mycroft Holmes." He said, surprising then both with the force in his voice. "Stop that right now. Blaming yourself is not going to do any good. God knows I have a whole list of reasons why I should blame myself too. But blaming yourself, wishing you could change what happened, isn't going to help him. What will help him is you being in there with him, showing him you won't leave him again. That you're there for him. Let him know its perfectly fine to feel the way he does."  
"I'm not quite sure I can. I'm not very good at emotional displays." Greg rolled his eyes.  
"Tell me about it." He grumbled. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and he sighed. "Just be there for him, Mycroft. That's all I can tell you." Mycroft nodded.  
"I see. Who did you lose, Gregory?" He sighed. There was no point in denying anything to Mycroft Holmes.  
"My sister. She got in an accident on her way home from a friends house. Drunk driver hit her head on. I kept thinking- I should have done something. Convinced her not to go, called to check up on her, offered her a ride home.She was only sixteen, five years younger than I was. But it didn't do me any good, and it won't for you either." Mycroft straightened himself and adjusted his tie.  
"I see. I will be back later, but first I have some...business...to attend to. My sincerest condolences for your sister." He started to walk away, then paused. "And-thank you, Grego....Greg. Thank you, Greg." He continued walking, not even noticing the small smile on Greg's lips. Mycroft was finally letting his icy shell crack.  
He had a feeling he knew exactly what Mycroft's 'business' was.


	3. Giving up

Exactly fourty-six minutes later, Mycroft strode back in. Lestrade leapt to his feet from the small bench.  
"Done already? That didn't take long." Mycroft paused.  
"Sherlock's things have been moved to another apartment with absolutely no connection to John in a complete different part of town. The landlord is sufficiently terrified. " Greg had to hold back a snort. "Also...the man named Sebastian Moran has gone missing. He should be found dead in.." He consulted his watch. "About an hour, I should think." Greg nodded.  
"Alright, I'll let forensics know."  
"Thank you, Detective Inspector." Mycroft said, starting down the hallway. Greg sighed.  
"It's Greg, Mycroft!" Mycroft didn't reply but Greg could swear that he was smiling. 

"I'm not a moron, Sherlock." Mycroft said. Sherlock rolled over in bed.  
"Thought you had gone."  
"I had some pressing matters to take care of."  
"Whatever. Why exactly are you not a moron?"  
"I know how you felt about Doctor Watson." Sherlock froze.  
"You know nothing." He hissed. "Absolutely nothing."  
"You know, the most anxious I've ever seen you wasn't even when you were in his room. It was when you were waiting for him to come back from surgery."  
"Mycroft."  
"You were pacing the floor, muttering something about red, and you wouldn't even speak to anyone. You didn't even notice my presence."  
"Enough, Mycroft."  
"I believe I owe you an apology, Sherlock. Everything I said about not feeling, and sentiment...I should have realized that it wasn't right for you, wasn't good."  
"And it's good for you?" Sherlock spat.  
"Maybe you would have been able to recognize your...feelings...for John, had I not told you that."  
"You have no right to come in here and speak to me about feelings. What happened to 'Caring is not an advantage'? What happened to you reminding me of red beard every chance you got?"  
"I was wrong."  
"No, you actually weren't for the first time in your life."  
"Sherlock..."  
"Tell me, Mycroft, how is Detective Inspector Graham Lestrade?" Mycroft knew he was setting himself up with his next statement, but he couldn't help himself.  
"His name is Greg." He announced, and left the room.  
Greg was waiting in the hall.  
"So? How'd it go?" He asked expectantly. Mycroft brushed past him walking faster than normal. Greg turned to watch him go.  
"Er...Mycroft?"  
But there was no answer.

Lestrade barged into Sherlock's room.  
"What the hell did you just say to him?" He asked.  
"Oh, joy. Another visitor." Greg sighed.  
"Listen, Sherlock. He's trying to help. We all are."  
"You know why the best way to help me would be?" Sherlock shot an icy glare across the room. "Leave me alone."  
"Well...we're checking you into rehab." Greg told him. Sherlock turned his back on him.  
"Go ahead."  
That was the day that Sherlock gave up.  
The next six months were long, hard, and arduous, but there were four days that stuck out in everyone's memory.  
The first was the day that Sherlock stopped eating.

It began as an ordinary day. It was about two months after he was deemed sober, and there was minimal danger of him slipping back into drug use. Mycroft still kept a close eye on him, of course, given his apathy and depression. He had completely given up. There was no life in him, which worried him more than the screaming when he was fourteen. But the day after he moved in, Mrs Hudson phoned Mycroft.  
"Mycroft, dear, did Sherlock eat before he left the hospital?"  
"No, why do you ask?"  
"He's been refusing all the food I offered him, he won't order takeout, he won't even drink the tea I made him. I'm worried about him. He barely says anything when I come over." Mycroft sighed.  
"I'll be right over. " When he knocked on the door of Sherlock's new apartment , Mrs Hudson answered quickly.  
"He's lying on the couch, same position he's been in since he came home. Maybe you can talk to him." Mrs Hudson left then, as Mycroft hastened up the stairs, worried at this turn of events. Sherlock was almost indistinguishable from the couch. A lump underneath his coat. Mycroft couldn't even see the rise and fall of his breathing, and it was with great trepidation that he rushed over to grab Sherlock's wrist. He had a steady pulse, and Mycroft could hear soft breathing sounds. He was asleep. Mycroft glanced at the sleeping face of his brother. He looked young, vulnerable. There was a frown on his face. Even in sleep he was troubled. Mycroft resisted the urge to brush his curls off his forehead. He'd spent so long watching over Sherlock that it seemed natural now. Instead he sat in Sherlock's armchair, and waited for him to wake up. It didn't take long for him to detect a change in Sherlocks's breathing.  
"I know you're awake, Sherlock." Sherlock sighed, and turned to look at him. If Mycroft hadn't had such excellent self control he would've gasped. His cheekbones stuck out like knives, and his cheeks looked sunken in. His eyes were large and glassy. Lifeless. His curls were wild and untamed and he had the beginnings of stubble. "Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft groaned. "What's happened to you?"  
"You know full well." Sherlock croaked, his voice hoarse and rusty from disuse. "You know why I'm like this."  
"It's been months. Surely you've recovered at least some of your sanity." There was no mirth in Sherlock's smile.  
"I don't expect you to understand, Mycroft. In fact, I hope you never have to." Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
"Let me guess, it's something to do with 'love'". Sherlock turned back over. "John wouldn't want this, Sherlock. You know he wouldn't."  
"You have no right to say anything. "  
"I'm your brother, Sherlock."  
"Tell me, exactly how would you feel if Greg was killed." There was a sharp pain in Mycrofts chest.  
"Are you seriously suggesting-"  
"Yes."  
"That is ridiculous, Sherlock. In any case, the Detective inspector and I have not spoken in nearly two months." Sherlock gave Mycroft a long, searching look.  
"I see."  
"Are you actually comparing Detective Inspector Lestrade to John?"  
"Yes." Mycroft scoffed, but Sherlock's face was grave and serious. "Don't make the same mistakes I made, Mycroft. Tell him."  
"I'm not here to talk about your ridiculous theories about my love life. You have to eat something, Sherlock. At least pretend as though you give a damn whether you live or not." Sherlock said nothing. "You will die, Sherlock. Do you understand that? If you keep going like this, this spiral of self destruction will kill you."  
"So kind of you to pretend that you would care."  
"I would care immensely. You are my brother, Sherlock. I should be very upset if anything happened to you."  
"You didn't exactly seem upset when I was being exiled."  
"Different circumstances. I had every intention of ending your exile quickly anyways." Sherlock sat up, suddenly furious. Mycroft took this as a good sign. But he was painfully thin, and the strain of sitting up showed on his face.  
"You said it would be fatal. You let me say my goodbyes to John. I thought I would never see him again."  
"I had to keep up appearances. And I was hoping you would reveal your feelings." Sherlock stood up suddenly, as if to hit Mycroft. But his face went pale and his legs collapsed under him. He was too weak to stand. Mycroft barely caught him. He put an arm around Sherlock's waist, helping him stand, and pulled out his phone. Luckily, Sherlock was weakened, and amid his protests Mycroft called a car to take him to the hospital and forced Sherlock into it.

"So, he's just stopped eating completely?"  
"Yes, unfortunately. At the moment he is receiving nourishment through an IV, in an effort to rehydrate him, and bring him back up to weight." Greg ran a hand through his silver hair distractedly.  
"God."  
"I would hardly say 'God' has anything to do with it."  
"Figure of speech, Mycroft."  
"I see." The two said nothing for several moments.  
"I can't believe this." Mycroft hesitated.  
"You do know what happened shortly before John's death, don't you?"  
"What? No. All I heard was that they heard Sherlock screaming and crying and they rushed in and John was...well..."  
"Yes, but before that. You see, I have cameras planted in many places. When I came to visit Sherlock I placed one in his room. Shortly before Johns death, they confessed their love for each other. How...romantic." Mycroft said, distaste dripping in his every syllable. Greg gaped.  
"You mean..." Mycroft nodded. "Jesus. Poor bastard. At least it makes some more sense now, but we all knew how they felt. I was beginning to think they'd never resolve the sexual tension."  
"Indeed." Agreed Mycroft drily.  
"Well, uh, I should probably go back to the office. Lots of paperwork." Greg said after a moment.  
"Of course. I will speak with you later...Greg." Mycroft caught a glimpse of the smile forming on Greg's lips as he turned to walk away.  
"Bye, Mycroft."  
"Goodbye."

A few minutes later, Molly came in. When she entered Sherlock's room, he was lying on his back, facing the ceiling.  
"You're an idiot." She told him immediately. He didn't respond. "Did you really think that nobody would notice? Or nobody would care?" He opened his mouth, but she wasn't finished. "You have friends, Sherlock. People you can count on. People who can help you."  
"And you consider yourself on of them?"  
"No." She said honestly. "I know you don't care what I think. But Mrs Hudson, Greg, Mycroft..."  
"If you're going to be insufferable, you might as well leave."  
"Fine." She said. "Fine. But I'm coming back." She walked out into the hallway, concentrating very hard on not letting the tears in her eyes fall.


	4. Losing Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs a hug. So does Mycroft. Lestrade's fed up with BS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I promised I would post a chapter on Wednesday. And now it's Sunday. Sorry!!! Honestly my only excuse is that I finished two seasons of Supernatural. Anyways enjoy!!!!!!

The second day was his relapse.

Against Mycrofts advisement, the hospital had released Sherlock. He had gained weight, and started eating on his own. Mycroft, of course, knew this was only a ploy to get the hospital to release him. Mycroft had cameras installed everywhere, and when he saw Sherlock leave his apartment, he immediately called a car to follow him.  
This time, Mycroft found him in a slum house, filled with drug addicts. Sherlock had lost weight again. He was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Mycroft walked in, aware he looked out of place in his expensive three piece suit. Wordlessly, he handed Mycroft the list. Mycroft read it quickly, then stooped to pull Sherlock's thin frame off the floor, putting Sherlock's arm around his shoulders. They had to get him to a hospital, and quickly. He was so weak he didn't even protest. He collapsed halfway to the door, unconscious. 

When Sherlock came to, Mycroft was in a chair, texting on his phone.   
"What happened?" He asked. Mycrofts face was pale in the light of his phone.  
"You overdosed." The clicking of his phone was the only sound for a moment.  
"Why aren't you angry?" Mycroft sighed, not looking away from his phone.  
"I'm not...angry, Sherlock."  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Oh, you're 'disappointed.'"  
"Not especially. I'm worried."  
"Worried? About what?"  
"About you, brother dear." Sherlock was saved the trouble of a sarcastic comment when a knock sounded on the door.  
"Come in, Gregory." The door opened.  
"If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times. Its Greg, Mycroft."  
"Yes, of course. I apologize." Mycroft said, his voice a bit too sincere.  
"Oh, please. Are you two going to flirt all day, or are you going to tell me why exactly you're here?"  
"We're your friends. Molly would be here, but she's working. And we couldn't drag Mrs H out of bed at three in the morning. It would be morally wrong." Greg replied.  
"I don't have friends." There was no sneer. No venom.  His voice was flat, lifeless, matter of fact.  
"You can't honestly believe that." Greg protested. Sherlock turned to face the wall, refusing to speak any more. Greg sighed in frustration, and walked into the hallway. Much as Mycroft would've liked to follow him, he sat back down in the chair beside Sherlock's bed. Someone needed to be here.

The third day was the day that he stopped speaking.

DI Lestrade: Mycroft, has he spoken to you? He hasn't said a word to me in days.  
Mycroft: No, me neither. It is a distressing turn of events. MH  
DI Lestrade: Right, I'm coming back to the hospital.   
Mycroft: I shall see you soon. MH

Greg knocked softly on the door before entering the room.  
"Hey." He said quietly, seeing that Sherlock was asleep. Mycroft had lost weight since Greg had last seen him. His face was pale and drawn, an he had bags under his eyes.  
"Jesus, Mycroft. When was the last time you slept?"  
"Hello, Gregory." Mycroft said, purposefully ignoring the question.   
"Greg." He said automatically. "He hasn't said a word?"  
"Not one. Not even to the doctors." Mycroft confirmed.  Greg sat down.  
"Did something happen?"  
"Not that I can discern, no."  
"Do you think he just...gave up?"  
"It is certainly a possibility." Mycroft sighed. "Since Doctor Watsons death, my brother has not been the same."  
"Can't say I blame him." Lestrade sighed. "Bloody idiots. Whole wide world wanting them to just get together and they completely ignore what's right in front of them." Mycroft nodded. They sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Greg stood up.   
"Well, um... I should go. Paperwork to do, things to oversee. You know how it is."  
"Indeed I do." Mycroft favored him with a small smile. "Goodbye, Greg."  
"Bye, Mycroft." The door closed quietly,  
"I know you're awake, Sherlock." There was no response. Mycroft sighed. "As you wish, brother dear." He didn't bother to let the door close softly, letting it slam behind him. Slowly, Sherlock's eyes opened, tear glazed and haunted.

The fourth day was the nightmares. It was by chance Mycroft was there, as he now only visited once a week at most. There was no point to him coming. Sherlock laid in the bed all day, refusing to eat, talk, or even acknowledge him in the slightest. He might as well have been comatose. Mycroft was deeply distressed by this, but he was at a complete loss for how to help him.  Of course, he had cameras set up, so he could keep an eye on him.   
Sherlock was actually asleep this time, unlike most times when he simply pretended. Mycroft happened to glance up when he heard Sherlock move slightly, and was startled by what he saw. Sherlock's hands were clutching the sheets tightly, twisting them around his fingers. His face was pained, and there were tears running down his cheeks.  
"No." He mumbled, the first word he'd spoken in weeks, almost a month. He turned restlessly. "No." He said again. "No. Not John. No!" Mycroft knew exactly what nightmare he was reliving. "John!" Sherlock let out a barely human cry, somewhere between anguish and pain. He sat upright in bed, chest heaving. He sat still for a moment, assessing his surroundings, and then started sobbing. He buried his face in his comforter, his whole frame shaking. Sherlock was breaking apart. He hasn't cried this hard since Johns death.  
"It hurts, Myc." He managed. "It hurts so much."  
"I know, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, his heart breaking for his brother. He put a hand on his back. "I know."

Greg ran a hand through his rumpled silver-gray hair distractedly. It'd been a long day, and he was bored out of his mind.  His phone buzzed, and he dared to hope it was a text from Mycroft. But no, it was just informing him that he had 20% battery left. He sighed. Despite his initial discomfort with the idea, he had come to enjoy his conversations with the elder Holmes brother. He opened up his conversations to scroll through his recent messages with him.

Greg: Any news on Sherlock, then? He speaking yet?  
Mycroft: Unfortunately my brother is still refusing to speak to anyone. MH  
Greg: Damn. So no improvement?  
Mycroft: None whatsoever. It is most intriguing. He is practically comatose, and yet his doctor informs me that his brainwaves incredibly active. MH  
Greg: Not surprised by that, you geniuses are always thinking too much.  
Mycroft: You seem to do quite a bit of thinking yourself, Inspector. MH  
Greg: It’s Greg! Next time you call me inspector, or Gregory, or anything other than Greg, I’ll start calling you ‘Myc’  
Mycroft: When Sherlock was a child, that was his nickname for me. It seems strange to hear it again. MH  
Greg: I bet. My sister used to call me Geg when she was little.  
Mycrcoft: I see. Many children have trouble with the R sound. MH  
Greg: Yeah. Anyways, how are you?  
Mycroft: You should know that I detest small talk. MH  
Greg: I’m honestly asking you how you are, Mycroft, because I want to know. I'm sure you haven’t been taking care of yourself as well as you should be.  
Mycroft: I’m fine. And you? MH  
Greg: Fine. Bit stressed. High maintenence job. I'm sure you understand. What exactly do you do, anyways?   
Mycroft: I've told you, I have a minor position in the british government. MH  
Greg: 'Minor position' my ass. From what Sherlock says, you practically are the british government.  
Mycroft: It is unwise to believe everything that my brother says. And that is my job description. MH  
Greg: I see. Well, I've got to get going. Murderer to catch. I'll see you.  
Mycroft: Indeed. I will correspond with you later. Goodbye, Greg.

Just then, he noticed a new text from Mycroft. 

Mycroft: Sherlock having nightmares. Spoke a few words. Would appreciate your help. MH  
Greg groaned. He could tell by the abbreviated sentences and informal language that it was bad, and Mycroft was worried. The text had been sent in a rush. His superiors would give him hell for leaving again, but that couldn't be helped.  
Greg: Be there in a few.

Sherlock face was wary. His fingers were twisted tightly into the bedsheets, giving him a numb, tingly feeling. He was cutting off circulation, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was tired beyond belief, but didn't dare to go back to sleep. He couldn't relive that memory again. He glanced over at Mycroft, who was sitting in his chair opposite Sherlocks bed.  
"Go to sleep, Sherlock, you've been awake over 48 hours." He said, noticing his glance. Sherlocks eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. No. No, he couldn't. Instead of saying this, he opted for sarcasm. Story of his life.  
"And I assume you just live off caffeine?"  
"I'm not ill." Mycroft pointed out. Sherlock followed his gaze to Greg, passed out in a chair next to Mycroft.   
"Oh yes, how is the dear detective inspector?" Sherlock taunted. Mycroft flushed slightly.   
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sherlock." Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"I'm sure."  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
"Oh, do you think nobody's noticed? How sickening your face is when you'rE around him? How you stare at him like a lovesick puppy? Do you honestly think anyone believes that you only text him to give him updates on me?" Mycroft stood.  
"That's enough, Sherlock." Sherlock sneered.  
"It's honestly pathetic."  
"Sherlock."  
"Especially the denial."  
"Sherlock! I said enough!!" Sherlock looked up, and saw the pain in his brothers face. "Enough...please." Mycroft said, softly.  
"Don't run from feelings, Mycroft. Sherlock said around the lump in his throat. He turned over to hide his face. Behind him Mycroft sat down heavily.  
"Something I've missed?" Greg asked.  
"No." Mycroft answered, his voice uncharacteristically emotional.   
"Is something wrong?"  
"No!" Mycroft answered, a touch angrily. Lestrade got up.  
"Right, then. Fine." His voice was cold and angry. Sherlock closed his eyes as the door slammed.  
"Are you happy now, Sherlock? Are you finally satisfied?" Mycroft practically snarled. The door slammed shut again and Sherlock clenched his fists even more tightly.

"Greg!" Mycroft called. "Greg!" His hands were balled into fists, and his shoulders were hunched. "GREG!" That got him to stop. He'd never heard Mycroft yell about anything before. He turned around slowly, and waited for Mycroft.  
"I'm sick of this." Greg said. "I'm sick of never knowing the whole truth, and not being told everything, and having people talk behind my back because Mycroft bloody Holmes doesn't want me to know!" Mycroft sighed.  
"It's a delicate situation, Greg. There are things-"  
"Bullshit." The harsh word echoed around the empty hallway. "I don't know what your actual job is, I don't know how you know half the stuff you do about me, I don't know why this Sebastian Moran man was so important to the government. How the hell am I supposed to trust you?"  
"I'm trying to protect you!" Mycroft said angrily. "My position is of more importance than you could even imagine, and I am not saying that to brag. People try to get to me. They've tried to before, but they've never been able, because there's nobody I'm close too. And for your own safety, I suggest that it stays that way!" Instead of going back to Sherlocks room, he walked past a stunned Greg towards the main exit. Greg stood there for a long time after he had gone.

Sometimes a heart breaks instantaneously. Sometimes over days, sometimes months. Sometimes a simple phonecall. Sometimes a simple syringe of morphine.  
For Mycroft, this breaking point didn't come until a normal seeming thursday. The nurses haLf started sedating Sherlock to just make him sleep. Mycroft knew the nightmares still plagued him. Sometimes, they were horrifying-dead John, his bloody hands still applying pressure to the wound. Or just senseless-John calling to him from around a corner, walls bleeding, the ceiling dripping with it. But most of the time, it was simply memories of his time in 221b. His time with John. Each time, he woke up, peaceful for a moment. Then it came rushing back to him in a flood of emotions, and the silent tears would stop. The silent tears were almost worse than the sobs, because he was so broken he couldn't even make a sound. His shoulders shook, but not a sound left him. So noiseless and desolate was he, Mycroft wondered how often his brother had silently cried.  
On that particular thursday, the nurse administering Sherlocks morphine was new. She was young, and kind looking. Mycroft saw the change in Sherlocks' position walking down the hallway. His umbrella dropped to the floor, and he instantly started running. He saw it all as if in slow motion, Sherlock practically leaping to wrest the syringe of morphine from her hand. Without a second thought, he injected the whole lethal dose into his arm expertly.  
The syringe hit the ground first. Sherlock stayed on his feet, swaying slightly. Mycroft fumbled with the door handle. He kicked it angrily. And then the door finally opened, and Sherlock looked at mycroft, with an expression of guilt and sadness on his face.   
"Sorry." He said. He turned his face towards the sky. "Sorry." Then he collapsed, the impact making a strangely soft sound.

Mycroft sat in the chair, not moving an inch. His face was unreadable. It might have been one of sadness, of guilt. It might have been one of pain. His head was throbbing. He was cold all over. He felt numb. Suddenly, there was a slight pressure on his hand. There was another hand resting on top of his, tanned, and rough with callouses and years of hard work.  
"You okay, Mycroft?" Greg asked. Mycroft didn't answer. There were no words. Luckily, Greg seemed to understand this. He curled his fingers around Mycrofts hand, and squeezed lightly. "You did everything you could."   
"But what if that wasn't enough?" Mycroft asked.  
"According to the doctors, Sherlock wouldn't even be alive right now if it weren't for you acting so quickly. Never thought you knew how to use paddles to restart a heart."   
"I could've lost him, Greg."  
"But you didn't." Mycroft was silent. Greg, accepting that he wasn't going to get any more answers, simply picked up the shock blanket a nurse had given Mycroft and draped it around his shoulders.  
"You saved him, Mycroft." He whispered.  
"And what if it happens again? What if I'm not there next time? I can't be watching him every second for the rest of his life."  
"Go to sleep, Mycroft." Lestrade suggested. In a move so soft and unprecedented Mycroft later wondered if he'd dreamed it, he bent down and kissed the top of his head lightly. "Goodnight."


	5. When all is lost...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm still crying over the sixth thatchers (I didn't like Mary but I didn't want her to DIE and I certainly don't agree with people who do) so this chapter has very minimal editing. Um...enjoy???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAHHH I KNOW I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN FOREVER AND I'M REALLY REALLY REALLY SORRY!! I just kind of lost inspiration? Luckily a good friend of mine (Who helped me come up with this story while we were waiting in line for a slide at aquaboggan-don't ask) gave me an idea of where it could go from here. So enjoy!   
> (Also you might cry)

 

Right. Left. Right. Turn. Right. Left. Right. 

Greg was pacing anxiously. He should be in bed, sleeping. It was nearly two in the morning, for heavens sake. It wasn't his fault. His thoughts were racing, practically giving him a headache. Was this how it felt to be a genius? No wonder Mycroft always seemed to be in such a bad mood.

Mycroft.

He groaned, and put his head in his hands. Jesus. Had he really kissed his head? God. At the time, he hadn't even thought about it. It had seemed perfectly natural and instinctive. Looking back, it was just embarrassing. What had Mycroft thought? He was probably just as embarrassed. Greg knew how he was with displays of affection. Why hadn't he said anything? Why had he even done that? Why couldn't he stop thinking about bloody Mycroft Holmes? 

It always came back to him. Back to Mycroft. Especially tonight, every train of thought led to him. He was worried, honestly. Mycroft had been in a bad way when he left. The only reason he'd left was because he knew Mycroft wouldn't appreciate him hovering like a mother bird. But Greg was definitely worried. He'd never seen Mycroft this upset. 

Back and forth. Round and round. Losing John broke Sherlock. Sherlock's suicide attempt nearly broke Mycroft. And if Mycroft broke...Christ. He sat down heavily on his bed. It was too damn early for this.

Right. Left. Right. Turn. Right. Left. Right. 

 

Needless to say, Mycroft wasn't asleep either. But tonight, rather than going too fast, his thoughts were almost nonexistent.  

"Sir?" Anthea asked. "Are you all right?" He nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Yes, of course." A stupid question, really. When would Mycroft Holmes ever admit to not being all right?

"He's your brother. It's alright to be upset."

"I'm fine." He snapped. Anthea took a long hard look at him.

"I see." She said eventually.  Mycroft groaned internally. He would get the silent treatment and knowing looks for weeks. 

"It is...difficult." He said after a moment. "Though he doesn't remember it, and would probably deny it if you said anything, my brother and I used to be very close. He hasn't been like this since he was fourteen. It is worrisome." Anthea nodded.

"So you're scared." Mycroft didn't reply. What could he say? "You know, Myc, for a genius you're the dumbest man that I've ever met." He didn't have anything to say to that either.

 

Sherlock awoke slowly. He stretched his arms slightly, rubbed his eyes, and then slowly opened them-and froze. A hospital. Memories came rushing back. John...overdosing...the morphine...

"No..." He mumbled. The heart machine started beeping frantically. "No..." He tried to sit up, tried to yank the I.V out of his arm. Suddenly there was a nurse at his side, trying to stop him, to calm him down. It took a moment. Finally, eyes wide, he stopped moving. 

"Had a bit of a shock, have you, Mr Holmes? It's alright, nothing unusual in that. I imagine it took a moment for you to remember?" The nurse asked, smiling sympathetically.

"Yes, yes, I, uh, apologize..." Sherlock said somewhat distractedly. "I'm fine now, thanks." She nodded. After taking his vital signs, she left the room. He closed his eyes wearily. He'd been so close...

"What's on your mind, love?" His eyes snapped open.

"John?"

“Hello.” He looked as perfect and vibrant as the last time Sherlock had seen him.

“I don’t-I don’t understand.”

“What, you can come back from the dead, but I can’t?” 

“No, but you-I-I watched you die, John! Your heart stopped!” 

“It’s complicated, love.” 

Just then there was a noise from the door. It was Mycroft.

“Who are you talking to, Sherlock?” 

 

Mycroft watched from the doorway, horrified and heartbroken. Sherlock appeared to be talking to an empty chair. And he could guess exactly who Sherlock thought was in that chair.

“Who are you talking to, Sherlock?” He asked at last. Sherlock started, surprised.   
“What do you mean?”

“Sherlock, there’s nobody there.” Mycroft said gently. Sherlock’s face fell.

“What? I don’t...He’s right here.”

“No, Sherlock. He isn’t.” Suddenly, Mycroft couldn’t read Sherlock’s face.

“You’re lying.” He said in a low, tremulous voice.

“Sherlock-”

“Get out.”

“I think-”

“OUT!” Sherlock threw the vase beside the table at him. It crashed into the wall, hitting the side of Mycroft’s arm. He took one last look at Sherlock and left the room.

 

Mycroft: Sherlock hallucinating. MH  _ Received 3:31 _

Mycroft: Thinks he sees John. MH  _  Received 3:42 A.M _

Mycroft: Could really use some help. Medically, as well MH  _ Received 10:34 A.M _

Mycroft: Just seen a doctor. Required a couple of stitches in my left arm. MH  _ Received 2:31 P.M _

Mycroft: Situation hasn’t gotten any better. MH  _ Received 8:54 P.M _

Mycroft: Gregory, are you alright? MH  _ Received 10:42 P.M _

 

Greg groaned.

“No. This can’t be...This wasn’t supposed...” The officer sighed.

“I’m sorry, D.I Lestrade. We lost them.”   
“Christ. They were just kids.” He buried his face in his hands.

“This whole thing could have been avoided.”It was his fault. If he hadn’t skipped out on his duties, this whole case would have gone much better. Everyone knew he’d been neglecting his work recently. Nobody blamed him.

But he blamed himself.

His supervisor knocked on his door, then stuck his head in. 

“Lestrade?” He asked.

“Yeah?”

“Perhaps you should take some time off. You’ve got some vacation days racked up.” Lestrade sighed.

“I...”

“It wasn’t exactly an option.” 

“Yes. Of course. Sorry, sir.” His supervisor left, and he groaned in frustration. This whole thing was a colossal mess. It had seemed like an ordinary case.

Until they found out there were drugs involved.

And the kids...The kids had been scared. It wasn’t their fault. They were confused and lonely. They’d been the ones to tell Lestrade what was happening, what their father was up too...and they’d been the ones to pay for it. A bullet to the head for the boy, and the stomach for the girl. Shaking, he reached for his trash bin and threw up violently. His fault. They were six and eight. Too young. Too young for this to happen. He shouldn’t have talked to them. Should’ve stayed away. Should’ve been here, helping, instead of at Sherlock’s bedside. His phone buzzed. Six missed texts from Mycroft. Damn. Before he could think, he hurled his phone at the wall, shattering it into a million pieces. One more thing to worry about. Now he’d have to replace that...Probably have to go check on Sherlock. At least he had more free time now. He smiled mirthlessly. He pulled his coat on and slammed the door behind him.

 

Mycroft was sitting in front of a two way mirror, watching Sherlock converse with the air. 

“They told me you were in here...” Mycroft glanced up. Greg was standing in the door.

“Yes.” He answered. “Sherlock was moved to a different room owing to...the recent developments.”

“Recent developments?”

“I texted you about it, some hours ago. I was worried when you didn’t respond.”

“Chucked my phone at the wall.” Greg admitted sheepishly. “Anyways, what’s happening?”

“He’s hallucinating.” Greg sat down heavily.

“Jesus...” He looked into the room, at Sherlock talking to someone who wasn’t there. “John?” Mycroft nodded in reply. Greg sighed.

“Damn.”

“Indeed.” 

Mycroft’s voice shook slightly, enough to tell Greg that he was more upset than he was letting on. But the set of his jaw, and the line of his mouth, told him not to ask just yet.

When had he memorized Mycroft’s every facial expression?

“I apologize for pulling you away from work get yet again.” Mycroft said after a moment.

“I’m taking a bit of a...mandatory vacation at the moment.” He said. “My boss’s idea.”

“Does this have anything to do with the reason you chucked your phone at the wall?” Greg sighed.

“I really blew this case, Mycroft. Shoulda been simple enough. Find this drug dealer. Arrest him. Easy. And we found him...but not before he’d killed his kids. It was my fault. I’d questioned them. I thought..I thought we could protect them.” He buried his face in his hands. “The boy was six and the girl was eight.” 

“It was not your fault.” said Mycroft. “You couldn't have prevented it.” 

“Yeah. Everybody keeps saying that. But maybe, if I’d been at the station, if I’d been doing my damn job-” He broke off. “I should’ve protected them.” He said. “I failed.” 

“Greg-” 

“Shut up!” He said, pointing an accusing finger at Mycroft. “It was my fault, and you can’t tell me otherwise. I failed at my job and I failed those kids and I failed Sherlock and I failed you. I failed everyone!” He threw his chair at the wall. Breathing heavily, he stood for a moment, and then he crumpled onto his knees, burying his face in his hands. “I failed.” He repeated miserably. 

“That is the most imbecilic thing I’ve ever heard.” Greg froze. “You saved Sherlock. And you didn't even know him. You took on a damaged, drug addicted boy who claimed to be a consulting detective, and you saved his life. You've saved so many lives I can’t begin to count them. You put up with the people you work with. You...you put up with me.” Greg looked up.

“ ‘Put up’ with you? God, Mycroft. Is that what you think? You’re probably the closest friend I have right now. I care about you, Mycroft. I don’t just ‘put up’ with you.” Mycroft was taken aback.

“You shouldn’t.” He said. “You shouldn’t care about me. You’re not supposed to.”

“I...”

“I don’t care about you.” Mycroft snapped. “You are simply a means to an end. You understand my brother. That is all. No more.” Greg gaped.

“No.” He said at last. “No. That’s bullshit. That’s bullshit and you know it.” He was getting louder, and to Mycroft’s dismay there was a tear running down his cheek. “I know you’d like me to believe that you’re some emotionless dickhead, some apathetic machine. But I don't. I don’t believe that for one second. I think-No, scratch that. I know you care. And if I'm wrong, if you do hate me, then I'll leave right now. But if this is some half-assed attempt to get me to stop caring about you, then tough shit. Because I won’t.” He glared at Mycroft, tears still running down his face. Mycroft’s mouth was open, shocked.

“I-I apologize, Greg. I didn’t think-” 

“Please.” He said, voice cracking. “Please, just tell me you care about me too. That you don’t hate me. That’s-that’s all I need to hear.”

Mycroft took his hand gently, an uncharacteristic gesture.

“I do.” He said, equally as gentle. “I do care about you, much more than I ought. I apologizing for hurting you. You were right. I was hoping that would make you not care about me. Being close with me isn’t exactly safe. And all I want is to make sure that you are safe.” Now Mycroft himself was shaking. Greg put his hand out to touch Mycroft’s cheek, softly. Mycroft sank into his touch.

“How long has it been since you slept?”

“Too long.” Mycroft admits.

“I worry about you.” 

“I know.” 

Greg couldn't find any more words. But he didn't need any. In a motion that seemed as natural as breathing, he reached up to kiss him, warmth flooding his entire body. Sleep deprived, shaking, and emotional, they clung to each other like drowning men. And in a sense, perhaps they were.

 

When Mycroft entered the room again, Sherlock was sleeping. He smiled softly, and brushed the curls off his forehead. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” He whispered. Sherlock stirred, opening his eyes. He gave Mycroft a questioning look, forgetting he was mad at him for the moment.

_ What? _

Mycroft have him a small smile, letting every emotion show on his face. It all boiled down to one point

_ Greg _

He touched his mouth lightly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes

_ Finally.  _ He pointed towards the door, eyebrows raised.  _ Go, I’m tired. _

Mycroft nodded, but paused at the door and smiled at him.

_ Thank you.  _

 


End file.
